India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY)

by Carol K. Carr

  “I’ll do it,” she said. You’d think the bloody girl would be grateful, but just for a moment I caught a glimpse of resentment in her eyes. Well, I wouldn’t begrudge her some bitterness at being handled so abruptly. If I hadn’t been under some time constraints, I might have used more charm and not bludgeoned the girl with the benefits of Lotus House. Needs must, however, and my present need was to vacate the premises before the abbess of this august establishment returned to find me pilfering her whore. I gave Martine the address of Lotus House and instructed her to call there the next morning at ten, cautioning her not to let Mother Edding know where she had gone, as I was concerned for Martine’s safety if the madam took umbrage. I did not mention that neither was I keen on the idea of a run-in with the stocky figure I’d seen stamping down the street.

  I was feeling most pleased as I traveled back to Lotus House at having plucked Martine from the clutches of Mother Edding without an ugly encounter or the spilling of any blood. Of course, the girl had yet to show her face at my door, but I had little doubt that she would be there tomorrow. She didn’t seem at all stupid, and only the densest of bints would stay in the horror of Seven Dials when she had the option to hie off to my establishment where there was food on the table and the customers had washed within the last decade. For the first time since that fateful visit to Scotland, I felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of tomorrow and what it might bring.

  FOUR

  I really must learn to subdue my exuberant nature, for tomorrow brought not a smidgen of espionage, but a mutiny among my whores. Promptly at ten o’clock Martine had knocked at the door of Lotus House, bearing her earthly belongings in a stained and battered traveling bag of ancient vintage. The rebellion commenced within a quarter hour. Mrs. Drinkwater had shown Martine to her room with instructions to fill a bath and stand by as the girl washed away any companions who might have accompanied her from her previous abode. I was having a think in my study, musing on how I would subvert Martine and worm my way into the Dark Legion, when a gaggle of howling whores burst into the room, still in their dressing gowns and slippers, and scenting competition.

  The mob of tarts advanced to my desk. What was that piece of continental fluff doing here, when there wasn’t enough custom for decent, honest British girls? What if one of their regulars preferred Martine’s Gallic attributes to their own buxom charm? Was a French whore entitled to more money? Who got the yellow dress tonight, they wanted to know, having agreed that yellow was definitely Martine’s colour, with that tawny skin and those warm brown eyes, but that wouldn’t be fair, as it was Ethel’s turn for the yellow, and how could I expect them to work when I turned things upside down by bringing in a Frog slut who probably didn’t speak the King’s English? I felt like the Widow Capet before the Revolutionary Tribunal.

  I daresay I had a better grasp of how to handle rebellious subjects than Marie Antoinette, for I just sat with my head cocked to one side, exuding dignity, and let them chunter on until they’d run out of steam. I’ve learned that if you let the bints maunder on for a bit, it relieves their feelings on the subject and leaves them with the erroneous impression that they’ve scored a victory of sorts. I waited patiently until the last expostulation had evaporated in the air, and then fixed them all with a gimlet eye. You can’t run a brothel if you quail at the sight of a few dissatisfied employees. Over the years I’ve developed a stare that could drive nails, and I used it now to good effect. It wasn’t long before every whore in the room was searching the floor for hairpins that had gone missing.

  “You surprise me,” I said reproachfully. “Don’t I look out for you? Don’t I keep you supplied with the latest fashions and give you meat twice a day? Don’t I see to it that every one of you gets enough custom to make a decent living? Show me another abbess who takes such care of her girls.” Inducing guilt in one’s employees, I have found, is a useful technique in controlling unruly strumpets.

  It proved so today. The girls blushed and mumbled and traced patterns on the carpet with the toes of their slippers. Like most mobs, they lost their spunk when their quarry didn’t take to her heels and flee.

  Clara Swansdown wrung her hands and had the grace to look ashamed. “Sure, and you know how it is. We’re on edge, all of us, what with the rain and the wind and being stuck inside and the fact that not enough chaps are showing up to keep even one of us busy. We know you take care of us, we do and that’s a fact. But if we don’t get some trade soon, our old mothers and children will go hungry.”

  “I understand, Clara,” I said, and I did, for most of the bints sent a few coins to their parents or young brothers and sisters, or in some cases, had their own children to support, farmed out to women who employed themselves taking care of the youngsters of wayward women. “Spruce yourselves up tonight and look lively, for you’ll have your choice of prospects. Now then, go and have some tea and make Martine welcome. Will you do that?”

  They went out, meek as sheep, and I mulled over the options for bringing in enough gentlemen this evening to make good on my promise. Now don’t think that I’ve become a soft touch, for I haven’t. It was in my own best interests to keep the bints occupied so that Martine’s introduction to the brothel would go smoothly. It was going to cost me some money to accomplish this, but I knew what had to be done. Accordingly, I sat down and penned a note to Major Rawlins of the Royal Horse Guards, inviting him and a few of his fellows to join me tonight at Lotus House, where they could enjoy a bevy of alluring females and unlimited whisky at a ten percent discount. I’ll tell you, it hurt to write that last part, but I bit my lip and steadied my hand and signed my name.

  I also took the opportunity to pen a note to Superintendent Stoke to let him know that I had succeeded in luring Martine to Lotus House, and I scribbled a detailed message to Sir Ashton Birkett-Jones, inviting him to visit me at his convenience, and, as I needed his assistance in a small matter, to enjoy an evening of love, gratis (not with me, of course). That pained me almost as much as marking down the whisky for our brave lads in uniform, but I resigned myself to sacrificing in the name of queen and country, and set myself to figuring a way to claim the loss of income as expenses payable to Her Majesty’s agent.

  Vincent was due within the hour for one of his regularly appointed stops at Lotus House, so I set the messages aside for him and found Mrs. Drinkwater in the kitchen, idly stirring a pot of stewed chicken while she polished off the contents of a bottle of cloudy gin.

  “Please prepare some bread and butter for Vincent, and give him the leg off that chicken you’re boiling into mush. And don’t light any matches in here, or the whole house will go.” Poor Mrs. Drinkwater. She doesn’t even pretend to be insulted anymore. She bobbed her head shakily, and I repaired to my study.

  It’s said that patience is a virtue and if that is so, then I am pleased to add it to the long list of moral qualities in which I am deficient. Personally, I have never discerned the slightest value in waiting. If something is worth having, it is worth having now, and if something needs doing, then why put it off? Unless of course, it involves emptying your purse, which, in my view, can be delayed indefinitely. I am not a rigorous thinker when it comes to ethics. You will have detected from the foregoing statements, however, that I was anxious to proceed with some aspect, nay, any aspect, of my assignment. I planned to have a little talk with Martine after she had made herself presentable, and no doubt Vincent would want to know all the details of Martine’s recruitment when he arrived, but until then I had little to occupy my time.

  What I needed was a session on the piste. Before you excite yourself unnecessarily, I am referring, of course, to that great killing art: fencing. French had introduced me to the sport, and while I proved an unwilling pupil when we commenced our sessions, I must say that I soon found myself enthralled with this athletic diversion. It proved remarkably effective at improving my figure, which needed little in the way of enhancement, or so I am told, but nevertheless, I found I needn’t lace my cor
sets quite as tightly after only a few sessions with the rapier. Rather to my surprise, I also discovered the thrill of clashing blades, headlong rushes and the shriek of the blade as it whips past its target. Bloody exciting, it is, to dance out of danger only to rush forward on attack and plant the point of your sword against your opponent’s (namely, French’s) chest.

  With French gone, I’d had no one with whom to bout, and my fencing skills were growing rusty. Oh, I did my best, improvising a dummy of burlap, stuffed with straw and balancing precariously on an iron stand, which I poked halfheartedly now and then. If I ever faced an immobile, thick-witted villain, I’d emerge triumphant, but if the fellow was portable in the least, I’d have my work cut out for me. I did entice Vincent into a bit of practice one day. He’d been itching to get his hands on the rapier French had given me as a present, so all I had to do was offer to let him use it if I could practice on him. Things turned out badly, for Vincent had even less regard for the conventions of fencing than I did, and spent the entire session jumping off furniture and swinging the blade around like a blasted pirate, not to mention sweating like a bloody sailor becalmed in the Doldrums and emitting a rancid odour that nearly blinded me. I called a halt when he stabbed a hole through my curtains. The study smelled liked the baboon cage at the London Zoo, and it was days before the foul stench left the room.

  With no sparring partner, I whiled away the hour until Vincent’s arrival by glancing through the morning papers. The anarchists were at it again, printing up broadsides and plastering them all over London, calling for the rise of the working man and the fall of the government, and urging the poor to claim what was rightfully theirs by scribbling the nearest nob. The toffs were reported to be all aflutter, with wives and children being moved to country houses to avoid becoming targets. The reporters were lathered up about the nasty foreigners in our midst, and the editors were calling on Scotland Yard to round up anyone with an accent and send them packing. London, indeed all of England, was on edge. The news made me even more anxious to get on with things.

  Vincent arrived and I fed him tea and bread and butter at the kitchen table. Mrs. Drinkwater had produced the chicken leg, and Vincent tore into like a starving fox while I recounted my adventures at Mother Edding’s. As these involved no knives, bullets or blood, Vincent was not particularly interested.

  “So all you know ’bout this ’ere Martine is that Superintendent Stoke thinks she’s one of them anarchists.”

  “Or associates with them.”

  “Ain’t much to go on. Wot if you’ve ’ired a dud?”

  The same thought had crossed my mind. I could only hope Stoke’s information was accurate, or I might indeed be saddled with a useless trollop. It was imperative that I insinuate my way into her confidence as quickly as possible, not only to discharge my duty to Dizzy but also to ensure I’d not taken on an extra mouth to feed.

  “You might make some enquiries around Seven Dials, Vincent. I wager you’ll have a better chance at finding out Martine’s relationship with the anarchists than Stoke’s informants.”

  Vincent acknowledged his superiority to the police in this regard, finished his repast and left to deliver my various messages.

  The afternoon was waning, and I sent Mrs. Drinkwater to summon Martine to my study for a little chat before the evening’s festivities began. The girl hesitated in the doorway, and I summoned her into the room with a wave of my hand. The bath had wrought a miraculous change; the girl’s hair was soft and lustrous and her skin luminous. I’d chosen an exquisite silk dress for her, in a delicate shade of rose pink that made her tawny skin glow. Ethel would have no reason to complain, as she would have the yellow dress tonight.

  “An improvement from Mother Edding’s, is it not?” I enquired. I pointed to a chair, and she sat down obediently.

  “Yes, mademoiselle.”

  “Mrs. Drinkwater has informed you of meal times and such?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.”

  “And the other bints? Civil, are they?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.” She hadn’t lifted her eyes from the floor during this conversation.

  “Come now. You mustn’t play the docile damsel with me, or indeed with my clients. They come here for a bit of fun. So pinch your cheeks and put on a smile. The gentleman callers like a frolic. They don’t want to spend the evening with a miserable cow. They can do that at home.”

  She straightened her back and flashed me a dark look. There was a current beneath that placid surface.

  “That’s better,” I said. “We’ll be having a group of military chaps in tonight, from the Horse Guards. They’re a lively bunch, and as soon as they see a fresh haunch in the larder, they’ll be all over you. Just remember that these fellows are not the louts you’ve been servicing at Mother Edding’s. You’ll be expected to flirt and flutter your eyelashes and amuse the customers. However, tonight you’ll be providing your service to someone rather special. Play your cards right and you may end up with a few baubles in your pocket. Whatever you’re given is yours to keep.”

  She looked astonished at my largesse. Well, I’ve found that if a strumpet has an attractive place to work where she rakes in the money, and she’s allowed to keep the tortoiseshell combs and cheap necklaces that are thrown her way, she’s apt to prove a steady and reliable hand. Of course, this philosophy of management has served me poorly on one or two occasions, when a girl has gotten too big for her bloomers and waltzed off to set up her own shop, but I usually have the satisfaction of seeing her at my door in a few months, begging for another chance. It’s amazing how few people are truly blessed with an entrepreneurial frame of mind.

  “One last thing about the chaps who visit Lotus House,” I said. “They’re important fellows, you know. Military officers and junior ministers and such. Of course, beneath that public school veneer, they’re just men. But you must behave yourself with them, or they’ll cause you and me no end of trouble.” I let a little wrinkle of disgust disfigure my brow. “It isn’t right, naturally, but there it is. They’re toffs and we’re not and it’s always best to remember that. Someday,” I added, sighing dramatically, “we’ll get our due, but until then, treat them with caution.”

  Martine looked at me quizzically. Damn. I would have to be more direct, but then one usually does when dealing with bints. They’re a literal bunch.

  “We may not like bowing and scraping to the swells, but for now that’s how we earn our shillings. The day will come, though, when they’ll get what’s coming to them. You wait and see.”

  I was thankful that Mrs. Drinkwater chose that moment to announce that Mr. Birkett-Jones had arrived, sparing me from further elaboration on the eminent demise of the aristocracy. I certainly didn’t want to overplay my hand with Martine, but I was anxious to plant the idea that while India Black catered to patricians, she wasn’t overly fond of the class.

  Birkett-Jones was a roly-poly Tory MP with a predilection for dusky sylphs with doe eyes. He took one look at Martine and emitted a low whistle of admiration. He darted forward and grasped both her hands.

  “’Pon my soul, India! Didn’t I tell you that she was magnificent! What a creature!”

  I have to hand it to Martine. She managed a winsome smile at the old coot, though I could see her impulse was to bolt like a frightened horse.

  “Mr. Birkett-Jones is the gentleman of whom I spoke when I met you at Mother Edding’s. He is the one who induced me to approach you.”

  Birkett-Jones wrung her hands heartily. “Indeed I did. One day, quite by chance you understand, I happened to see you at Covent Garden. Well, I was struck dumb by your beauty. I made enquiries at once, and when I found that you were reduced to working for that awful woman, I immediately thought of Lotus House and what an addition you’d be here.”

  “You were correct, sir. Martine is a charming girl, and we are pleased to have her here.”

  “Come, my dear,” Birkett-Jones said. “Let us have a glass of wine.”

  I
gave her an encouraging smile and as she was towed past me, I whispered in her ear, “He’s a nice bloke and he pays handsomely. Now go bewitch the old devil.”

  I must remember to commend Birkett-Jones on his performance as the Enamored Gentleman. I thought it perfectly calculated to dispel any suspicions Martine might harbor regarding the reason for my recruiting her to Lotus House. I knew I could count on the bloke to pull off the role with ease, as he was one of the best orators in the Commons, with a silver tongue and a passion for amateur theatricals. He’d been more than happy to impersonate my “valued customer,” especially as he’d been rewarded with a bit of rumpo (on the house) for his pains.

  The contingent from the Royal Horse Guards appeared shortly after Birkett-Jones and Martine had disappeared upstairs, and I spent half an hour jollying along the major and smiling coquettishly at the stalwart fellows he’d brought along. I’ve never seen such magnificent moustaches and perfect posture. I stayed just long enough to be sure that the guardsmen had paired off with the girls and there were to be no quarrels, and then I repaired to my study. It had been a long day, quelling the trollops’ riot and spoon-feeding Martine with my radical views and arranging Birkett-Jones’s appearance and the revels for the major and his comrades in arms. I was feeling rather done in, so I removed my shoes and stretched out on the sofa before the fire with a glass of whisky in my hand while I reviewed the day’s affairs. It was a relief to have the preliminaries out of the way, to have Martine in hand and the introduction to Lotus House over, but I could not dismiss the nagging doubt gnawing at my mind. In short order I’d have to convince Martine that I was an abbess with a social conscience, ready to throw in my lot with an anarchist group of which Martine, according to Superintendent Stoke, might know nothing, or might have heard rumours, or might belong. It had also occurred to me that Martine had wasted little time at taking me up on my offer of employment. I remembered Superintendent Stoke’s observation that the anarchists were a paranoid bunch, often infiltrated by government agents and wary of outsiders. Those anarchist chappies might already be on to Stoke and his men and his latest recruit, yours truly. Martine might have her own agenda in moving to Lotus House. This would be a dicey business. I consoled myself with another whisky and the thought that I’d been running bluffs all my life and had been rather successful at it, and would undoubtedly pull off this bit of entertainment on behalf of Her Majesty’s government.